


What Doesn't Kill You

by VentiKaffee



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Deadlock Gang, Gunshot Wounds, No Romance, No Smut, Slow Build, first time sharing canon character writing, go easy on me? lol, how the heck do people tag things here, i guess, idk man, juvenile character, kinda angsty?, vague Texan setting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 05:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7210472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VentiKaffee/pseuds/VentiKaffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCree isn't a very good dad, but he tries his best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Doesn't Kill You

>   _"I took the low road in..."_

 

The image of the speeding truck grew smaller in the distance. Everything else seemed to slow, even the rolling of the dust as it settled in the wake of their escape seemed sluggish and ethereal.  The ringing in her ears fluctuated, but didn’t relent, and felt somehow like a physical weight that held her to the ground. They had abandoned her, used her. It came as no surprise if she was honest with herself, but it stung nonetheless. A painful tightness clenched at her throat.

She wasn’t sure what coaxed her to her feet again, fear perhaps or anger. Her body ached with the roiling concoction of physical injury and spent adrenaline. Her blurred gaze remained locked on the horizon where the others had vanished moments ago. They weren’t coming back. The goods were more important, always had been. She wasn’t the first to be discarded for the the sake of the goal, and she wouldn’t be the last. Part of the fueling anger was aimed at herself, for allowing herself to believe this would have been a moment of pride and glory.

Slowly the sound of static poured into the shrill echo, pricking at her senses. Her fingers twitched just before a hand reached up and snatched the pointless device from her ear. A tight fist clenched around it, knuckles going white, then released as she slammed it onto the ground and stomped, grinding the plastic into the dirt. Sensation trickled back into her nerves, pain from being knocked to the ground and the impact of rubble, sweat and blood chilling under a gentle breeze.

Something stirred behind her. A trembling hand snatched her gun before she fully registered the action. It was as instinctive as one holding their breath before going under water by now. The moment she turned to aim at what might be a threat, a shot rang out and her hand erupted in pain. The pistol fell with a clatter that was almost unheard while the burning consumed her senses briefly. Her free hand clutched at her fingers as if she could quell the pain under the pressure. The breeze chilled her hands, and the pieces frantically stitched together in her mind.

She’d been shot.

 _“_ _¡Joder!”_ She hissed, turning about and doubling over. Her eyes, which had only just cleared from the prior incident, teared up again.

A thud sounded behind her, barely registered by heightened alertness through the waves of agony, accompanied by a jingle of spurs as the lone ranger hopped down from atop what remained of the tunnel’s end. “Aw, hell.” Her assailant cursed, giving her a look of pity. Trying to make heads or tails of who was standing before her was proving difficult as her initial attempts to stand straight resulted in staggering. Through the tears she made out that he wore a stetson, and a rich red poncho hung over his left shoulder. The classic cowboy look would have been amusing on anyone but the man who’d just shot her.

He cleared his throat as she struggled to right herself and face him, glaring behind tousled strands of dust-caked hair. “S’cuse me,” the sarcasm was practically dripping from his tongue, “you wouldn’t happen to know where those rascals are headed?” He indicated with a nod in the general direction he assumed the gang went, which wasn’t too much off. His revolver was still drawn, but his arm rested at his side.

Her eyes flicked to her own dropped gun, then back to him. He didn’t need to follow her gaze to know what she was thinking.

“I’m sorry. Sure yer havin’ a hard time focusin’, so I’ll repeat myself.” The revolver rose to aim at her again and the telltale click of the hammer prompted a chill and wave of fear to amplify her pain momentarily. “Where’d they go? 

“South,” she blurted and almost smiled at the way his mouth slacked and he blinked in surprise. It never got old, being assumed male until she spoke.

“I can tell that much.” The gun shifted with his impatience, but she doubted he’d shoot her again. He didn’t seem like he wanted to the first time. In the wake of her stubborn silence, he finally huffed a heavy sigh. “You don’t know, do ya?”

And she didn’t. Few had been privy to such information for this specific possibility. One didn’t just run a gang of criminals and mercenaries without considering the potential for betrayal in the case of capture. Grunts like her were a dime a dozen and didn’t need to know more than to do as they were told. But she didn’t answer the assumption, embarrassment welling up, and she cast her gaze away.

“Well,” the cowboy began, snapping her attention back. The sound of the revolver being de-cocked prompted both relief and a bit of confidence in the youth. She liked to think herself a pretty decent judge of character. The man before her was a hero. Wait. About the time realization hit, the world teetered.

“S’pose i better get g- Woah there!”

The girl stumbled with unfocused eyes, and he barely managed to swoop forward and catch her before she collapsed. “Yeah, that’s a lot of blood.” He admitted, grimacing at her hand and checking over her other various injuries. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

 

* * *

 

A familiar rumble beat at her ears, the gentle sensation of inertia upon turning pressing her head into the window of the old truck. Dark eyes flickered open and closed again, squeezing away drowsiness and the ache she felt growing in every limb. When they reopened, she dumbly watched the scenery zipping by, rust and tan rocky flatland dotted with coarse foliage and wind worn formations.

The pain increased the more she awakened, throwing her tired mind back to the incident. The vigilante! She jumped and jerked her head to face the driver. The motion made the interior of the tuck spin and wobble, but there was no mistaking that red poncho. She let her head loll back against the seat with a groan.

“Ya alright there, miss?”

Every inch of her ached, and without adrenaline coursing through her she could feel each bruise, scrape, and gash just by breathing. She flexed the fingers of her dominant hand and sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. Tight bandages had been wrapped about her palm to secure a generous amount of blood soaked gauze in place where her index finger should have been. Sickening realization twisted her gut and brought fresh tears to her eyes.

“Didn’t think ya’d come to so soon. Town’s still about an hour or so away.” The words filtered in sluggish and unclear. “Got some painkillers in the glovebox, probably a bottle of water too.” A hand reached into her field of view to press a button that opened a compartment in front of her and fished around for a small white bottle. His explanation of what it was finally registered about the time he held it out to her and shook it.

Her un-maimed hand grasped the container in a weak grip and placed it in her lap before  awkwardly shuffling around through folded papers, boxes of ammunition, and cigar wrappers for the promised bottle of water. She finally found one pressed against the right side under a stack of what looked like legal documents that she honestly had no interest in. It had been opened before and was a little more than half full, but she wasn’t feeling picky.

She dumped several of the white caplets into her bandaged hand and knocked them back, garnering a sound of surprise from her driver. “Hey now, recommended dose is like, two every four to six--” he cut himself short at the sight of her gulping down the water to the last drop. “Well, alright. You’re gonna see a doctor soon anyway, I guess.” he conceded with a sigh.

The ride continued for another several minutes in mutual silence. The low rumble of the motor was oddly comforting and she was glad he let the quiet linger so she could enjoy it. Feeling the pills finally start to kick in, she made the first move to strike up conversation again.

“McCree,” was all she said, her voice a murmur.

Jesse grunted.

“You’re a wanted man.” As if he needed reminding.

“And you’re a wanted gal, by association.” He assured her.

“So why are we going to town?”

He sighed again, and she felt the truck’s momentum lessen a little.

“‘Cause you need to see a doctor.” He reasoned, guilt evident in his tone. “I ain’t goin’ in, just gonna drop ya off.”

“They’ll arrest me, bring me in for questionin’.”

“And they should.”

“I’ll go to jail.”

“Yeah, that’s what happens when you become a criminal.”

“Unless you’re McCree.”

“I--” His knuckles went to his pursed lips, then left as he gestured agitatedly with one finger.. “Now see here, I ain’t some terrorist gang member blowin’ up tunnels, alright?”

She allowed herself a laugh. It hurt.

“Besides, you’re just a juvie. They’ll let you off easy if you tell ‘em what they wanna know.”

“You know I don’t know nothin’.”

“You know somethin’, and anything will help.”

“Jesse.”

He clearly didn’t appreciate her persistence, or use of his first name like that.

“Ya ain’t talkin’ me outta this, kid.”

“I ain’t goin’ back.” She insisted, turning a glare on him.

“Ya ain’t got a choice.”

“Like hell I don’t!”

She lunged across the space between their seats and grabbed at the wheel. He managed to grab her wrist and push her back, but she kept up the struggle regardless. His mechanical hand kept an iron grip on the steering wheel as he wrestled to subdue her. The vehicle swerved threateningly, but managed to remain on the road.

“Damn it, kid. Settle down!”

He slammed the brakes hard enough to send her tumbling into the foot of the vehicle. The youth let out a pained yelp as she landed on her injured hand. The irritated cowboy yanked, his grip still on her left wrist, pulling her back up. Complaining all the way, she struggled to right herself again and pin her furious gaze on him.

“I’d rather die than go back! There’s nothin’ for me there! You should’ve taken a better shot! _¡Chingate!_ ” She literally spat at him.

McCree stared wide-eyed at her for a long moment, long enough to make her shift with discomfort although she did not avert her own gaze and her glare did not soften. He then wiped the spittle from his jaw and released her wrist with a nod.

“Ya still need to see a doctor.” He insisted as they both settled back into their seats. “I ain’t capable of fixin’ up yer hand there.” His gaze located her bandaged hand, which was showing obvious signs of more bleeding brought on by the brief tussle. He sighed at the sight and gestured for her to bring it closer while he reached his robotic hand behind his seat to feel around for something unseen.

“Where do you go when ya get hurt?” She asked quietly, giving the man pause.

He didn’t answer immediately, perhaps pretending to be focused on retrieving the dinged up metal first aid kit.

“It’s not like ya can just waltz up into the nearest hospital and not get immediately apprehended, not with yer reputation, not with that crazy bounty on yer head.”

“I get it.” He snapped, pulling the dented box around and setting it on his knee. “I take care of myself mostly, but i’ve got a few friends.” He flipped the front latch with his thumb and opened the kit. It was a rather large box and well stocked. She supposed it had to be if any of the stories were true.

“Couldn’t ya take me to one of these friends?” She inquired, hope seeping into her voice.

Jesse steadied her hand with his metal one, grip a bit too tight around her wrist. She winced, but didn’t protest. His other hand produced a pair of scissors which he promptly used to cut the dirtied bandages free. His touch was definitely not that of a doctor, but she’d been forced to sit through worse attempts at aid.

“S’pose I could.” He didn’t sound convinced.

He tossed the bundle of bloodied cloth out the window, then offered the youth a packaged disinfecting wipe. Too busy staring with morbid fascination at what remained of her index finger, she didn’t notice right away.

“Get it cleaned up and I’ll apply fresh dressing.”

Her dark eyes blinked up the the square being held out to her, then darted back to her hand once more before she accepted it. With a sigh, she tore open the packet with her teeth and pulled the wipe out. A few shakes unfolded it, and she set to wiping and dabbing at the blood stains.

“Or I could just not see anyone. You seem to be doin’ fine takin’ care of it.” As if being spited, she accidentally nudged the fresh wound and winced audibly. Seeing raw flesh torn like that, a blank space where a finger - her finger - should be probably should have unsettled her, but it paled in comparison to some of the wounds she’d witnessed the other gang members endure. To be honest, she kind of liked it and wished the incident had played out differently so maybe she could tell the story of how she lost a finger in a shootout with the infamous Jesse McCree.

A tug on her wrist yanked her from the reverie. Her other hand clenched around the bloodied wipe as the outlaw quickly applied fresh gauze to the wound and began securing it with a roll of bandage. The motions were purposeful, practiced. She wondered how many wounds he’d dressed, and how many weren’t his own.

A few metal pins held the new wrappings in place. Sinking back into her seat, she took the time to admire his handiwork while he put the truck back into gear and guided it back into a straight path down the old road. The ride fell into silence again, this time heavy and tense. The warm colors of the outback were fading into cool greys as the sun began slipping behind the plateaus on the horizon. The way the sunset splashed fire on the dull stretch of land never failed to charm the young woman. She spared a glance to the man across from her, trying to discern his thoughts.

He looked tired. His eyes, shadowed by shaggy hair, stared wearily down the road ahead. The majesty of the moments just before dusk seemed lost to him, his attention focused on what lie ahead. The nearest city, a hospital, another hour away. Remorse built up in her gut like the slow burn of whiskey. This was the most generosity she’d been shown in a long time, and all she’d given in return were spat insults and a stubborn streak worse than a mule’s.

Her attention drifted to the glove box again. Her good hand popped the compartment open and started shuffling through the papers again - no luck. She could feel the man giving her a sidelong look, but she refused to acknowledge it. She fumbled around the space between the front seats until she found another button, pressed, popped open another compartment and began looking through it too. This got his attention.

“Hey, what are y--”

She finally found the box, as ornate as she would have anticipated from a man like McCree. The front was kept shut with a simple latch that was easy to pop loose with one hand. The cowboy began to interfere just as she lifted the lid.

“Hold on, now.”

She swiped the box away as she made a grab for it.

“Those are mine.”

“I know.” She agreed with a smirk, placing the box on her lap just out of his reach. She retrieved one of the neatly arranged parejo cigars and held it out to him. “Hold it.”

The way his lip twitched made his irritation clear, but out of curiosity he did as she asked of him for now. Her hand freed, she popped the cutter from the indentation in the lid and clipped the cap off the cigar between his fingers. An amused smiled now tugged as the corner of his mouth as he realized what she was on about. He wasn’t about to argue, he could use one, but he sure hoped she knew what she was doing.

He examined her work as she replaced the cutter and closed the lid. A genuine chuckle rumbled in his chest as he watched her look about after replaced the box in the console. He gently closed the compartment, allowing her time to remove her fingers and give him a questioning look.

“I’ve got it.” he assured her, bracing the wheel with his arm while he dug an old fashioned zippo lighter out of his pocket.

She watched him roll the end of the cigar over the open flame, then finally managed to put words to her intentions. “Thank ya.” she murmured, then cleared her throat and spoke more clearly. “For not leavin’ me, for.. Drivin’ all this way to make sure I get the right kinda help.”

He puffed a few times, filling the cab with smoke. The haze was as comforting as she’d hoped. He had good taste.

“Gonna be another four hours after we hit the highway just to get to the border of New Mexico.” He stated matter-of-factly. “Ya sure you can hold out ‘til then?”

There was no stopping the stupid smile that overcame her features, so she turned her head to look out the window.

“Yeah.”

 

> _"...I'll take the high road out."_


End file.
